


the witch

by snickerdoodlles



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fae and Faeries, Gen, Urban Fantasy, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26785042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snickerdoodlles/pseuds/snickerdoodlles
Summary: A witch lives in the cottage at the end of the road.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	the witch

A witch lives in the cottage at the end of the road.

We know she’s a witch because her garden blooms abundant regardless of the season’s weather and she says all sorts of things like, “Wisdom is dark and thick like blood,” and “I’m in no hurry, and the sun and moon ain’t either,” and “I’m a witch!” I like her because she doesn’t smell bad the way old people usually do and she gives me a slice of her perfect apple pie so long as I sit and have a cup of tea with her.

She grins at me from across the table, eyes crinkled and warm and her smile all the more friendly for missing some teeth. “Like the new hair, Rohan.” I drag my hand through my new indigo colored hair, fingers tickling the short fuzz of my buzz cut sides, sensation joined by warmth bubbling in my gut. “You use that metal dye again?”

I hide the upwards twitch of my lips with a large bite of pie. Then I fail to hide my smile and groan happily as cinnamon and nutmeg bloom across my tongue, apples soft with the perfect hint of crisp crust dissolving into buttery flakes. The witch matches my grin, eyes twinkling like stars.

“You know all modern dyes have metal in them, Grandmother.”

She’s not my grandmother, but she’s never told me her name. She says they have too much power. I don’t get it, but unlike my blood grandmothers, she doesn’t judge my ever changing rainbow hair or my ink or my cycling names. I dare say she even approves of them, though whether the spark of pride in her eyes is due to the stuffy neighbors’ disgust or something else entirely, I couldn’t say. Maybe it’s both.

I’d quite like for it to be both.

“Can never be too careful,” Grandmother says cheerfully, nudging another plate of pie to me despite my first not being even half done. “You made sure to collect your trimmings, right?”

I dig a ziplock bag out of my pocket—the faded blue dye on old bleached strands makes the trimmings look like befuddled grass, much to my bemusement. Grandmother clucks approvingly and sweeps it off the table. “Good. You’ll have to begin completing this ritual yourself one day. I’m not gonna be around forever, I’m not that type of crone.”

I hum as she hobbles to her workbench. I love that old workbench of hers—it’s entirely made of wood and old in the sturdy sort of way that means it’s been here for generations before me, and will be here for many generations after. It’s been pit marked and gouged through the ages of use, a wildland’s topography stained black and sticky with layers and layers of lacquer. Grandmother keeps it clean and chaotic—it’s organized, but in a way that only makes sense to her and spins anyone else in circles. Herbs and spices cling to its sides and up the wall behind it, and a forest of glass bottles occupy where its cabinets once hung. Grandmother pulls out a shallow iron bowl already prepared with coals and edged in runes, and begins feeding it my hair trimmings carefully in clumps. “Weren’t you the one who claimed you’d haunt Old Man Skylar’s garden as a snake for the rest of your days though, Grandmother?”

“And you think I’ll take a break from that just to clean up after you? Brat!”

I laugh and we fall into a comfortable silence. My trimmings sizzle to the melody of the cottage creaking around us as Grandmother burns them away, throwing sage with the coals to keep them from smelling.

I suppose it is an odd ritual, but Grandmother’s been doing it since I snuck into her garden on a dare when I was seven and stayed to chat. Back then, Grandmother’s peace offering was a lassi and a shared plate of warm naan, and I was all the more delighted eating her food because I knew my parents wouldn’t approve my visit. My loose tooth wobbled free during my second piece of naan, so gentle I wouldn’t have noticed had she not pointed it out. Grandmother had then carefully plucked my baby tooth from my chubby hands, muttered a spell and a prayer under her breath, and guided me to a dias where she held the tooth in a delicate pair of tongs over a fire until even the ashes had burned.

“Remember, dearie.” She had tucked her cool bony finger carefully under my chin, raising my face to the gentle warm sun and the breeze danced sweet on my freckled cheeks, her eyes old and solemn and burning. “Every bit of you is important and precious—even the discarded bits. Always take care of them, and love them, and no one will ever have claim over you.”

I can’t say why I came back the next week, that time with nail clippings. But then I returned yet again the following month with a second tooth and carefully collected hair strands, and the tradition was born.

The sharp hissing sizzle of water over coals brings me out of my reverie. Grandmother swirls the water around the bowl, careful not to let any spill over the sides. She fixes me with a stare and a raised brow, lips in a crooked grin as though she knew where my mind had wandered.

(All things considered, she probably did.)

“Well come on then!” She turns and hobbles out the door. She favors her left knee and I laugh as I go up to gather the bowl full of my ashes and a little extra for protection—last time, she had favored her right. I wonder which one she’ll pick next.

She thumps her cane against the doorway three times, claws her fingers against her breast and pushes out, and stomps out into the garden. I follow carefully, bowing my head and murmuring my thanks to the ivy winding protectively over the doorway as I go.

“So, Rohan.” Grandmother pauses to pat the rosemary and murmur a few encouraging words. “Who do you want to ask for protection?”

I purse my lips and look over the garden, humming as I admire the blooming apple tree, the dormant peas, the coriander tickling my shins. Grandmother smiles secretively beside me, and I roll my eyes when I catch her.

“Why do you always ask when you already know,” I whine without rancour, carefully picking my way past the bellflowers over to the old juniper tree reaching to the sky. “Hello, friend,” I say quietly, but no less cheerful. Juniper and I go way back—it was my first protector, all those years ago, when I was just the curious scared kid peeking around its trunk for a glimpse at the witch. “I come to speak to the Juniper and ask for shelter beneath its leaves.”

The leaves of the juniper tree shiver—from breeze or my words, I do not know. It’s never been important. I bend to my knees, whisper a murmured thanks, and carefully pour the watered ashes on its roots. I know it’s in my head that the leaves look greener and the branches fuller and the tree curls over me welcomingly, but I don’t care. I let the calm rush over me as I bow my head and whisper thanks once more, lingering.

Grandmother smiles when I rejoin her. Her head is tipped to the sky as she welcomes the sun against her cheeks and I only see the sliver of her dark eyes to acknowledge me as I mirror her stance. “I’m glad you have Juniper. You two do well together.”

I merely smile. My mind is mostly taken with the idle wondering if freckles will darken my cheeks before I get back home tonight.

We stand together, young and old, and enjoy the calm afternoon and garden surrounding us. It’s nice, being able to come to this little corner of the world and appreciating the world turning past. A stream gurgles in the distance to the sound of cicadas buzzing as the summer sun cools into evening and, for a bit, I forget that time exists.

Grandmother and I don’t speak, but then, words aren’t needed. It’s not until I set out to leave that words enter our little world again.

“Don’t forget, Rohan,” Grandmother says, as always, “even the discarded bits of you are important. Always take care of them—”

“For when I care for me, no one will have power over me.” I swoop in to kiss her weathered cheek, grinning as she scrunches her nose affectionately. “Don’t worry Grandmother, I even have some red string, a copper penny, and a fool’s prayer on me for extra protection.”

Grandmother rolls her eyes at my cheek and pinches my arm in admonishment. “I ain’t talking about that. Yes, the traditions have faded, the promise is weakened and it won’t be long before it becomes null. But.” She looks at me solemnly and the moment chills with a stiff breeze, as though the entire garden were listening in on bated breath. “No matter their mischief, they aren’t the enemy you have to worry about.”

Grandmother places a wizen hand over my heart. Her eyes seem to glow, the light playing with my eyes to suggest a different figure stood before me in her place. “Protect yourself, Rohan. Usually it’s not intentional, but they’ll hurt all the more if you forget love.”

“I never forget your lessons, Grandmother.” We sit in that moment, solemn with sincerity, and then Grandmother breaks it with a laugh. She waves me out the garden, extracting another promise I’ll be careful before I leave.

I wonder why she worries so, when I have people like her looking out for me. Then the breeze tickles my cheek, carrying a butterfly and the sharp scent of juniper, and I lose all my worries between the late golden sun warming my back and the warmth in my heart.

Until the next visit then.

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Hallow Heart zine


End file.
